


Electricity

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Locker Room, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-25 08:37:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6187708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Musashi had warmed up as usual, taking his time to avoid an inopportune injury, and was halfway through his first set when a familiar voice offered, 'Taking an easy day of it, old man?'" Musashi just wanted to do some training but Hiruma has other ideas</p>
            </blockquote>





	Electricity

Musashi just wanted to do some training.

It’s been raining all day, the weather offering the heavy, steady weight of water in the air that promises to hold up for the whole last half of the week just as it threatened for the first. The football field is inches deep in mud, and after Sena slipped and barely avoided an injury on Tuesday even Hiruma had to admit training outside in the downpour was more risk than benefit. They’ve been limited to the weight room instead, practicing squats and bench press with varying degrees of success and questionable enough form that Musashi spent much of his effort ensuring no one hurts himself rather than training on his own. Coming in during afternoon classes seemed like the best way to ensure an hour of time alone; his absence from lecture is unfortunate, but after missing over a year Musashi can’t muster too much concern for taking off a single day. He had warmed up as usual, taking his time to avoid an inopportune injury, and was halfway through his first set when a familiar voice offered, “Taking an easy day of it, old man?”

Musashi doesn’t respond right away. He finishes his set first, moving through the rhythm of the last three reps before reracking the weight, and even then he doesn’t sit up when he looks over to Hiruma lounging against the open door.

“I’m still warming up,” he says without any aggression in his voice to answer the taunt laid under Hiruma’s.

“You can lift twice that,” Hiruma informs him without glancing at the weight Musashi has on the barbell. “You’ve been out here for twenty minutes, aren’t you training yet?”

Musashi’s not surprised that Hiruma has the count exactly right, even though he didn’t see the other on his way out; at this point he knows better than to be surprised by Hiruma knowing just about everything. “I’m not in a rush,” he says, and reaches up to brace his hand at the bar and push himself upright on the bench. “I’m not getting in anyone’s way.”

“Is that what you were worried about?” Hiruma unfolds from the wall, coming forward across the floor with long, ground-eating strides; with the black shirt clinging to his shoulders and dark jeans over long legs, he looks a little like a shadow given human form as he crosses the distance. “You’re too fucking considerate, old man, are you going to get out of the way of linebackers during games too?”

“That’s different,” Musashi says. He doesn’t get up off the bench, doesn’t reach out to draw Hiruma in closer, but Hiruma comes anyway, striding up to the edge of the weight bench and swinging a leg out over Musashi’s hips so he can straddle the other’s lap. Musashi lifts his hands, fitting the span of them to Hiruma’s hips, and Hiruma’s fingers come up to dig into his hair, to push the heavy length of it back and off the sweat-sticky heat of his forehead. Hiruma’s touch is ungentle, the drag of his fingernails hard enough to score trails of friction against Musashi’s scalp, but Musashi doesn’t flinch away, just stays still and lets Hiruma shove through his hair. “The rest of the team needs the training more than I do.”

Hiruma’s laugh is sharp, edged as if with broken glass and grating in his throat into the range Musashi recognizes as true amusement. It makes him smile without looking up to see the way Hiruma’s chin is tilted back or to see the flash of teeth in the grin the other is giving him. “That so?” Hiruma’s hand pushes down against the back of Musashi’s neck, his fingers catching to press hard against the muscle in the other’s shoulder, and Musashi lets the air go out of his lungs in a rush as his head tilts forward to press at Hiruma’s collarbone. “Full of yourself, aren’t you?”

“No,” Musashi says. When he breathes in he can taste artificial sugar on his tongue, can make out the faint lingering sweet of Hiruma’s bubblegum like it’s clinging to the more usual weight of gunpowder and metal that lines the other’s skin. “But I can come in during classes when the rest should be studying.”

“You’re just a slacker,” Hiruma grins, and Musashi could point out that Hiruma’s not in class any more than he is but he doesn’t. Instead he leans backwards as Hiruma angles his thumb in against Musashi’s collarbone, lets himself be pushed flat to the bench as Hiruma tips in over him. In the shadow of his position Hiruma’s teeth flash as bright as the metal of his earrings. “If you’re going to ditch class you might as well do something useful.” Hiruma lifts his hand from Musashi’s shoulder, reaches up without looking to close his fingers hard on the dark weight of the barbell; when Musashi looks away from the other’s smirk he can see the pale of Hiruma’s fingers laid against the texture built into grips on the bar. “Do another set, old man.”

“I should add more weight,” Musashi says, but it’s an observation more than a protest; he’s reaching up as ordered, fitting his hands to the roughened metal of the bar and twisting his hold as he settles his wrists in place. “This was just for my warm-up.”

“Just lift it,” Hiruma tells him. “Unless you want to lie there complaining all day instead.”

“Alright,” Musashi allows, and braces his shoulders against the bench under him. The weight comes up easy, the strain of the burden more than manageable for the strength built by years of construction work; Musashi is thinking about his form more than the effort as he lowers the bar to his chest and holds it there for a heartbeat. He starts to push up, unfolding the angle of his elbows with deliberate grace -- and Hiruma moves, rocking his hips forward in a deliberate rolling drag that jolts startling adrenaline out into Musashi’s veins.

“Shit,” Musashi blurts, and it’s a good thing the weight is so low because for a moment his motion stalls out of sheer surprise. He catches himself after a moment, completes the lift, and then rocks the bar back against the rack without even attempting a second rep. “What are you doing?”

“What does it _seem_ like I’m doing?” Hiruma asks. “Finish your set.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“It’s a low weight.” Hiruma’s hips come forward again; Musashi can feel the other’s thighs flex as he moves, can feel the tug of Hiruma’s zipper catching and dragging against his own. “Can’t you even do your warmup with a little distraction, old man?”

Musashi frowns up at the bar, shifts his grip against the texture of it. “This is a bad idea.”

“Come on,” Hiruma tells him, and his hand catches at Musashi’s jeans, his fingertips work up under the loose of the other’s shirt to threaten against bare skin. “That’s not even as much as I weigh, you can handle it.”

“Maybe I should just bench _you_ ,” Musashi suggests, but he’s pulling the bar up and free of the rack anyway, his shoulders flexing solid against the bench under him. “Then you wouldn’t be able to distract me.”

“Stop talking,” Hiruma tells him, and Musashi obeys, taking a lungful of air as he lowers the bar to bump against his ribcage for a moment. Hiruma grinds himself down but Musashi’s ready for it this time; he exhales as usual, making a smooth motion of his rep as Hiruma’s fingers dig in at his skin to brace the other in place as he moves. Musashi does another rep, a little faster, this time, and Hiruma’s legs shift wider, his feet bracing at the floor as he rocks himself forward. Musashi can feel himself going hotter, his arms straining with the relatively light effort as his spine prickles into the heat of arousal, but he doesn’t rerack the weight; he does another rep instead, staring fixedly at the ceiling overhead as his arms move through the action, as Hiruma’s weight presses and grinds against his hips.

“See,” Hiruma purrs as Musashi tips the weight back and lets it settle into the support of the rack; it’s not until the bar is caught against the supports that he lets the strength in his arms go, and even then he keeps his hands against the grips laid into the barbell, keeps his fingers flexed around the shape of it as his hips rock up to meet Hiruma’s. “You can handle a little distraction, fucking old man.”

“You don’t have to distract me,” Musashi points out, although he’s not reaching to push Hiruma off him, and even when he shifts his feet it’s only to get better leverage for the upward cant of his hips. “I could stop. Or you could wait.”

“Eh,” Hiruma says, and waves a hand through the air as if to push aside the very suggestion. “That’s a lot less interesting.” He grinds his weight forward, pressing himself hard against Musashi’s hips; Musashi exhales at the friction, his body rocking up to meet Hiruma without deliberate thought. Hiruma’s hand slides sideways and up against the edge of Musashi’s hip to spread against his stomach instead; Musashi can feel the threat of Hiruma’s fingernails against his skin, can feel the tension in the other’s hold as he rocks his hips forward and down to press against Musashi’s hips.

“Is this--” Musashi starts, then stops himself so he can shudder through an open-mouthed groan as Hiruma’s weight catches and grinds against the rising heat of his cock. “ _God_.” His palms drag against the bar, the friction of his grip giving him a point of contact, and for a moment he’s arching up off the bench to meet Hiruma’s weight with his hips. Hiruma makes a weird noise, half a laugh and half a moan, and Musashi lets himself drop back to sprawl across the bench as he pants heat towards the ceiling. “Is this what you want?”

“Is this _all_ I want, you mean,” Hiruma clarifies, and Musashi doesn’t offer protest. He looks down instead, past the dark line of the barbell overhead to meet the shadows of Hiruma’s gaze, to stare down the intensity of the other’s eyes. For a moment, a heartbeat, they’re both still; then Hiruma’s mouth twitches at the corner, his teeth flashing into a smile, and Musashi knows the answer in the moment before Hiruma laughs.

“Of course it’s not,” Hiruma says, and slides forward hard, hard enough to settle his hips over Musashi’s in the suggestion his position hadn’t quite made explicit before. “Did you really think I’d be satisfied with just this?”

Musashi huffs, a laugh that stands as an answer, and Hiruma’s smile drags wider in the moment before his hand braces hard against Musashi’s stomach and he pushes himself up and away.

“Finish your fucking training,” he orders, swinging his leg back over Musashi’s knees and turning to move towards the far corner of the room. “And then we’ll pick this back up.”

Musashi looks back to the barbell. Better to keep his mind on what he’s doing, he tells himself as firmly as he can, better to keep his attention on the weight of the bar as he swings it up and out of the rack instead of on the flushed weight of his cock hard inside his jeans or the ache of desire coiling low in his stomach. He does one rep, two, a third, fitting his breathing to the rhythm of his movement and steadfastly ignoring the heartbeat-slow pulse of want in his veins. Hiruma’s moving in the corner, rattling through the drawer of the desk and knocking unseen items in his locker, but Musashi doesn’t surrender to the temptation to look over; he stares at the ceiling instead, breathes deep until his pulse has slowed from its frantic pace, and then unracks the bar for another set.

He loses count of how many he does. The bar is light for the first rep but he can feel the strain collecting in his shoulders with each repetition, can feel his arms starting to tremble in the rests he takes between each set. He can’t hear anything when he’s pushing the bar; the effort narrows his focus, whites out his vision and deafens his hearing so all he hears comes in pieces, in the heartbeats between each movement of the bar or in the minutes he spends staring at the ceiling and tasting the rush of his breathing at the back of his throat. Hiruma’s shifting in the corner, occasionally clattering objects or a chair or his belt, Musashi’s not sure and doesn’t dare check, and then he goes almost completely quiet, so still Musashi can’t hear anything in the middle of his set. It’s not until the bar is back in place and Musashi’s breathing has eased from the strain of effort in his chest that he can catch the suggestion of breathing from the corner, that he can piece together the tiny, barely-voiced whimpers of reaction working their way up Hiruma’s throat at whatever he’s doing to himself. Musashi can feel his chest tighten on anticipation, can feel his cock flush harder against his jeans, until by the time he pushes the bar free of the rack for another set he’s hotter than he was to start, until it’s only the distraction of the effort that keeps his mind from the ache of desire in his cock. He does another set, feels the burn straining across his shoulder to match the electric weight fitting itself up his spine, and then he tips the weight back to clatter against the rack and there’s sudden weight against his legs, the pressure of Hiruma straddling his thighs so unexpected Musashi startles and looks down without thinking.

“You done yet?” Hiruma asks, grinning bright as Musashi’s gaze lands on his face. He looks sharp, hot and radiant and dangerous as the sun; it’s nearly the same way he looks before a football game, except for the flush coloring the high angle of his cheekbones and the red of friction marking his lips dark and distracting. His jeans are gone, abandoned somewhere Musashi doesn’t know where and doesn’t care to look, because Hiruma’s thighs are pressed against his and Hiruma’s cock is curving towards his stomach, and Musashi’s reaching out without thinking to press his fingers to pale skin.

Hiruma slaps his hand away. “Keep holding onto the bar,” he orders, confidence more than anger on the words. Musashi reaches up without looking away, curling his fingers back into place against the metal warmed by his own touch, but his gaze stays fixed on Hiruma’s legs, on Hiruma’s hips, on the flex and shift of tension against the inside of Hiruma’s thighs as he catches and sustains his balance. “All you have to do is hold still, old man, I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Will you?” Musashi asks, more to reiterate than to question, but Hiruma’s eyes narrow, his lashes drawing into heavy shadows against his gaze for a moment.

“Yeah,” he says, and then his fingers are at Musashi’s jeans, his thumb catching and bracing against the button as his other finds the pull for the zipper and drags it down. “Just stay where you are.”

“Okay,” Musashi says, and then Hiruma is dragging his jeans open and he has to tighten his hold against the barbell to resist the urge to grab at the other’s hips. Hiruma’s fingers are deft, quick to catch the open edges of the denim and draw them open and nearly businesslike about sliding Musashi’s cock free of jeans and boxers alike, but his touch is like fire, jolting electricity all up Musashi’s spine until he’s arching up off the bench like he can get any height at all with Hiruma’s weight on him. He does manage a half-inch in spite of himself, upsets Hiruma’s balance enough to get himself a hand grabbing at his hip, and then Hiruma laughs, sharp edges and bright sound as he grinds his palm against Musashi’s hip to hold him down and curls the fingers of his other hand into a slick hold against Musashi’s cock. Musashi makes a sound, something low and hot coming from the very center of his chest, and Hiruma purrs, the resonance of it skidding out against the sharp edges of his teeth. His weight comes forward, his knees angle wider, and Musashi’s fingers tighten around the bar against his palms as Hiruma lines himself up against the braced hold he has at the other’s cock. There’s a moment of friction, slick skin dragging over slick skin; and then Hiruma’s moving, fast, so Musashi is still gasping his first startled inhale of reaction as Hiruma sinks down onto him. It’s too much, the friction and the heat and the pressure, and then Hiruma rocks up a half-inch before dropping down the rest of the way and Musashi’s startled inhale leaves his lungs in a groan he can feel all the way through his toes.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he manages, and Hiruma’s leaning in over him, abandoning his hold on Musashi’s cock to grab at the barbell between the other’s hands. His eyes are shut, his mouth open on the gasping inhales he’s taking, and from the tension in his forehead it’s too much but he’s still moving, rocking up to slide back down before Musashi can find the words to tell him to slow down. “ _Yoichi_.”

“Old man,” Hiruma groans, and there’s a raw edge under his voice, a strain in his throat that sticks Musashi’s breathing in his chest and rocks his hips up in a brief, involuntary jerk. “Shut up.”

“Slow down,” Musashi orders, or pleads, or suggests; he can’t tell how the words come out, can’t hear his own voice over the rush of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. “You can--” and then Hiruma rocks back hard onto him and his attention and words flicker out for a moment, his vision flashing to white as his head goes back and his chest offers up a groan instead of protest.

“I know,” Hiruma tells him, and he’s shifting his weight, adjusting his balance as Musashi blinks himself back to clarity at the ceiling, as he sees the way Hiruma’s grip at the barbell is going white-knuckled with effort. His weight is tipped, that one point of contact taking his whole forward balance, and then Musashi tips his chin down and sees why, sees the angles of Hiruma’s fingers dragging hard over the flush of his cock. “Shut the fuck up, old man, someone might hear us.” They won’t -- classes are still in session, and if someone hasn’t found them yet they won’t at least until next period -- but Musashi doesn’t protest this argument, doesn’t know that he could find the words even if he wanted to. Hiruma’s moving faster, his legs straining with the effort of his motion as his bracing arm trembles, and Musashi can feel the desire to be closer aching in his shoulders and arching along the curve of his spine like his whole body is trying to crest up to meet the breaking wave of Hiruma’s motion. His hips are bucking up, meeting each downward slide of Hiruma’s with an upward angle of his own, and Hiruma’s panting for air, his head ducked so all Musashi can see of his expression is the feathery dark of his lashes and the damp part of his lips. His wrist is flexing, his fingers tightening, and Musashi can’t catch his breath, can’t keep his hips flat on the bench under him for the magnetic pull of Hiruma’s body moving over him.

“Yoichi,” he says, and Hiruma whines but it’s not a protest, or not one coherent enough to dissuade the syllables in Musashi’s throat. “ _Yoichi_.”

“Fuck,” Hiruma bites off, his teeth catching at the soft of his lower lip. “Old man, just.”

“Yeah,” Musashi says, and he lets the bar go, reaches out to grab at Hiruma’s hip instead. Hiruma jerks at the contact, his spine arching like he’s been shocked, and Musashi pulls him down at the same time he bucks up hard, taking over the rhythm of their motion for one rough thrust. Hiruma groans, hot and shattered and desperate, and Musashi does it again, and Hiruma blurts “ _Gen_ ” and spills hot over his grip on himself. Musashi can see the heat in Hiruma’s tense throat, can see the flutter of pleasure in his eyelashes, can feel the waves of involuntary motion ripple through his body, and he lets his other hold on the bar go too, catches Hiruma’s hips between his palms as he rocks up with sudden frantic need into the other’s body. Hiruma is shaking, hissing each inhale as he jerks himself through the last of his orgasm, and he’s dripping over his fingers and onto Musashi’s shirt but Musashi doesn’t care, doesn’t care about anything except the friction spiking hot along his spine and knotting into desperation in his stomach. His hands tighten, his hips come up, and Hiruma tenses around him and Musashi’s throat tears on a groan, all the air in his body leaving his lungs as heat seizes him in a long, helpless tremor of pleasure. His vision is white, his ears are ringing, but everything is hot, everything is electric, and he can’t think to breathe but he doesn’t think he even cares, just at the moment.

The tension fades eventually, after what must be a few seconds and feels like an eternity. Musashi subsides to the bench under him, his legs trembling with the release of tension as he lets the support take his weight, and Hiruma gasps an inhale and lets his hold on himself go to brace at Musashi’s chest instead. His fingers are sticky but there seems little point in complaining; Musashi’s shirt is already stained over his stomach, it’s not like the open-palm print of Hiruma’s hand will make things any worse. Hiruma lets the bar go, gets his feet back under him, and then he slides up and away, leaving Musashi to groan at the drag of friction as Hiruma untangles himself and moves away towards the corner of the room.

“I’ll need to miss next period to shower,” he says without turning around. Musashi is still trying to even his breathing; when he turns his head Hiruma’s back is to him, his shoulders flexing like wings under his t-shirt as he draws his jeans back on with efficient haste. “You want to finish the training you started or go back to class?”

Musashi considers: the ache in his shoulders, the exhaustion in his thighs, the sticky sweat clinging to his skin and smeared across his shirt. When he sits up it’s an effort, requiring the support of an elbow against the bench before he can straighten.

“I’m done training for the day,” he says, slow, like he’s thinking through the answer. “I could do with rinsing off, though.”

Hiruma tips his head to look back over his shoulder at Musashi. Even from across the room his eyes are dark, shadowed like they’re smudged with charcoal instead of just weighted with the angle of his eyelashes.

“Yeah?” he says, and there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, a grin threatening against the points of his teeth. “Think you can afford to miss history, old man?”

Musashi considers Hiruma’s shoulders, considers the length of his legs, considers the casual angle of his wrist at his side. Then he looks back up to meet that shadow-smudged gaze, and lets the very corner of his mouth go soft in a smile to match the warmth he can feel in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “Think so.”

Hiruma’s laugh glows through Musashi like electricity.


End file.
